


playing pretend

by aaronminyxrd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25098022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaronminyxrd/pseuds/aaronminyxrd
Summary: If there was one thing Cedric Diggory was good at, it was pretending. Ever-reliable, he was whatever he was needed to be. But perhaps a few friends, and a certain Harry Potter, can help him face the truths about himself he had long since repressed.This is Cedric Diggory as we deserved to have known him.dialogue prompt: "kiss me again"theme prompt: (found) family
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 251





	playing pretend

**Author's Note:**

> i have a lot of thoughts about this boy

As his classmates cheered for him to put his name in the Goblet, roaring their applause, he took a moment to watch his name be engulfed by the flames, expression solemn. If you looked a little closer, perhaps you could even say he was scared. 

He would never say it out loud, though. Never admit the weakness. He doesn’t want to call it lying. It isn’t as if he wasn’t not telling the truth--just omitting certain parts of it. 

The Goblet quieted down into a steady flame, and Cedric turned to the crowd, smiling, all traces of fear and regret gone. 

Because if there was one thing Cedric Diggory knew he was good at, it was pretending. 

* * *

**0\. He pretends he wouldn’t have grown up any other way.**

Amos Diggory was nothing if not proud. So he did everything in his power to transfer all that pride onto his only son. 

Private tutoring, classes on etiquette and public speaking, grueling flying lessons (all theory of course, though as soon as his father deemed him old enough, tested his natural instinct on a broom), and limited free time made for a clever boy. 

But it also made for a lonely one. 

Cedric remembers, all those years in his bedroom, looking out the window at all the children laughing and playing and so very _free,_ on their mock brooms and sticks for wands and their knees bruised and hands dirty. So natural, where Cedric felt as if his very skin were porcelain: feeling as if he had to tread through every day carefully, lest he broke and revealed he was made of the same flesh as everyone else. 

He asked his father once, whether or not he would be able to play with the other children. 

“You were made for better things, my boy. Greater things than playing pretend.”

And his mother, for all her kindness, he could never bring himself to ask. She never expressed direct expectations the way his father did, But Cedric was clever. She didn’t have to say it out loud for him to know.

Perhaps that’s why he indulged in his father’s wishes of eventually pursuing Quidditch, once he was old enough. Once he had his own broom. The calluses on his hands were the only things that reminded him he was human, the sting of the wind on his face, the adrenaline running through his veins reminding him he was alive. 

That didn’t stop his father from doing his best to polish him anyway. 

Perhaps that’s why until Hogwarts, Cedric’s hair had been trimmed short, kept neat. The way it fell over his face and waved was infuriating to the orderly, an affront. Every day was the same routine, the same lessons, the same, sad boy staring back at him from his mirror. 

So he worked. and persevered. Quietly and alone, until he went to Hogwarts.

* * *

**1\. He pretends his father is proud of him being sorted into Hufflepuff.**

_Dear Cedric,_

_Your mother and I have received your owl. We know you are capable of making a name for yourself regardless._

_We wait until you write to us next, perhaps with updates on how you’re faring academically._

_Remember: Determination. Perseverance. Ambition._

_Without those, we are nothing, and we know you are more than that._

_Yours,_

_Father_

By all means, the letter he received was not scathing. But it had just enough subtle disappointment in it that it crushed him. 

He did not-- _could not_ tell his father the truth: he was a hatstall. A long one, at that. Almost embarrassingly so. So he omitted the fact.

He also chose to omit that Hufflepuff had been his choice. In a way.

_“You would do well in any house, you know.”_

_Cedric stared straight ahead, not knowing what to reply. But his silence was enough._

_“Ah, conflicted, are we? You’ve a bright mind, a creative one. The markings of what is indeed to be a memorable man, but you fear to be him. Perhaps not Ravenclaw, then, but Gryffindor? A strong sense of justice, but again, the fear of executing it. But you’ve goals--big ones. How about Slytherin?”_

_Cedric’s breath hitched._

_“Difficult! Very difficult.” the hat continued. “Ambition runs through you, a desire to prove yourself. A ruthlessness. So young, and so burdened. But beneath that is something else. Incredible resilience. Steady determination. The ability to persevere. You could be anyone. Tell me, Cedric Diggory. Where do you want to be? Who do you want to be?”_

_Silence. A shaky breath. A whisper._

_“I just want to be myself.”_

_“Oh my dear boy,” the hat had said in a voice that sounded almost like his father’s, “you don’t even know who that is yet.”_

_Another pause. And then-_

_“HUFFLEPUFF!”_

* * *

**2\. He pretends he wants to be a Seeker.**

He’ll never forget the day Oliver Wood approached him during his Second Year, after their first practice match against Gryffindor. 

Cedric had just been announced as a new member of the team, so naturally, this particular loss would be another omittance in his next letter to his father. 

“You’re good on a broom, Diggory,” he had said as they shook hands on the pitch. 

Cedric shifted awkwardly. He wasn’t nearly as comfortable on the ground, and attention from students from other houses was unfamiliar to him. 

He couldn’t think of any excuse to leave, however. Oliver was friendly--it would be rude to excuse himself, and despite Cedric being generally liked by those in his house and team, he had yet to form a close friendship with anyone. It wasn’t as if he was being asked for. 

“I’m decent,” he replied. 

“More than decent, from what I’ve just seen.” 

“Thanks,” he offered. He wasn’t sure what Oliver was getting at, but from the way he tapped his finger against his broom’s handle, it looked like he had something to say. 

“You could make Captain one day, you know, if you keep at it.” he continued. “Just...take a look at that shoulder every once in a while.” 

And with a nod, he made his way towards the changing rooms. 

*

True to his word, Cedric became Quidditch Captain in his Fifth Year. 

He was praised for his fast swerves, one where he leans particularly hard on one side so as to gain more momentum to catch the Snitch, and avoid Bludgers.

But also true to his word, Cedric’s left shoulder began to ache by then too, to a point where he could no longer ignore it. 

He’d seen Madame Pomfrey about it, once.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Just a short while,”

“Don’t you lie to me, Cedric Diggory.” 

That shut him up, as well as made him think he’d have better chances against Marcus Flint aiming a Bludger at him than arguing with Madam Pomfrey and expecting to win.

She huffed as she examined him, then straightened herself to speak to him once more. Her features softened, and he dug his nails into his palm. That was not a good sign. 

“Well, Mr. Diggory, you’ll live. I can give you a potion to mend that shoulder, but as long as you keep those swerves up, there will be no permanent solution to this particular injury.”

Cedric grit his teeth. “But I can still play, right?” 

“You can,” she said slowly. “But I must seriously suggest, if not to stop playing, then to reconsider your position on the team--not as Captain, but as Seeker.” 

But Cedric was as stubborn as he was determined, and as soon as she mentioned even the possibility of quitting Quidditch, he decided to handle it himself. 

Her words haunted him, nevertheless. Ran through his mind for weeks. 

She looked at him the same way Oliver did, all those years ago. They knew. Merlin, _he_ knew. But even then. 

He didn’t want to give up his swerves. As of right now, he’s leagues away from learning a proper feint, and it’s the only chance he’s got to make sure Hufflepuff has another edge so they can take more wins. The only thing he’s got for himself to make sure he at least stands a chance in catching the Snitch before Harry Potter. 

_“Seekers get all the glory, son.”_ his father always told him. _“And-”_

“It’s always worth the glory, isn’t it?” he finished. 

So he kept quiet about his pain. Practiced day and night until his shoulder throbbed so hard he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. 

Determination. Perseverance. Ambition. 

He took a deep breath, making his way back towards the Castle, shoulders sagging even lower as he thought of all the weight that’s been placed on them.

* * *

**3\. He pretends he loves magic, unquestionably.**

Cedric’s best subject has always been Charms. It’s never been difficult for him to picture the abstract. 

His father never thought much of the subject.

But Cedric reveled in its deceptive simplicity. That’s how most people thought of him, anyways. For all his kindness and patience, Cedric did not miss the way they were mistaken for a sort of naivete, as if he was gullible in his efforts of fairness and goodness. After all, he was taught that in a world as cut-throat as this, he would need to be sharper. Smarter. _Better_. 

And so that’s what Cedric worked to become--just not in the way his father imagined him to. 

Even with the most mundane charms, spellwork was about intent, always. And Cedric wanted the spells he learned to help spur his creativity, build his knowledge. He wanted _tools_ , not weapons. 

He said this aloud once, but was met with bewildered stares from his peers. 

“They’re not one or the other, Ced. They’re both.” 

And Cedric thought about this for a long time. 

He’d spend days in the library, in his favorite spot in an alcove towards the last rows of shelves, sometimes reading, sometimes thinking, sometimes studying. Sometimes he’d hold his wand up to his face and examined it for what felt like hours. 

It all started, as one can argue how everything always started, with Ollivander. _“Because that is the root of all magic.” he had said as Cedric’s wand chose him, “Intent! Intent to cast, intent to create. Without those, magic is formless. There is no outlet, no channel. Wild magic is beautiful, yes, but what you can_ do _with it is marvelous.”_

Cedric took those words to heart. 

Intent to cast came easily enough for him. His father’s tutors were vigilant in lessons, and even today Cedric grimaced whenever he was so much as a slight bend out of proper formation. When he said a spell, he made sure the execution was as near perfect as he could achieve. He often wondered whether or not this was the reason he seemed so...stiff, at times, or why he disliked Potions and subjects which very much centered around memorization and flawless execution. Or even during duels or everyday uses for magic. Because Cedric was _good---_ great, even---but he was not a natural. His mind wandered idly to the Weasley twins. 

Intent to _create,_ however. He believed that’s what made magic what it was. He appreciated the trial and error that came with Charms. Failing wasn’t abhorred, it was simply natural. Sometimes, you end up with a disaster, or a different spell altogether. But Cedric loved it. It was remarkably freeing, in a way that even Flying could never be.

Now, though, it felt as if his relationship with magic was growing to be more complicated. 

To learn, one must inevitably fail. Such was the nature of all things, like Charms. 

But should that mean that his peers were correct then? Would this mean to create, one must destroy? 

His father would agree. It was the sort of black-and-white thinking he prided himself in. _“Gets decisions made quickly,”_ he always said. 

But Cedric never wanted to make quick decisions. He just wanted to make the right ones. 

**(3.5)**

(He started to write. 

It was a hobby he secretly turned to for comfort as a child, a way to escape into the world he longed to see and experience. But once his mother found his half-written poems and hastily scribbled stories, she advised him to stop. 

“Your father…” she had started, but Cedric didn’t need to hear the rest. 

And his mother, so loving, so kind, scarcely ever asked for anything. So he obeyed. 

But things had changed. His mind was cluttered, his eyes sunken and his expression tired. He was working to become Prefect, to become Captain, and for top marks, all while trying to maintain relatively good relationships with his peers and Professors. Trying to be what everyone needed him to be. 

It wasn’t until he almost snapped at his Potions partner that he realized how much it was taking a toll on him. He needed something, _anything_ for himself. 

Funnily enough, it seemed Roger Davies had thought the same. 

“That’s my spot,” the words were out of Cedric’s mouth before he could stop them. He was too exhausted for tact. 

Roger raised an eyebrow. “I take it you come here often?” 

“Well,” Cedric offered, “it _is_ the library.” 

To his surprise, Roger _laughed,_ crossing his legs so that there was more room in the alcove. “Right you are, Diggory.” 

Cedric huffed, but indulged, sitting in front of Roger. He pulled out his own notebook, intending to get at least a few words down and relieve some stress, but the silence was--to say the least--unbearable. He had come here to write, and he honestly _wanted_ to, but he also didn’t fancy someone looking at him the entire time. He was debating the best possible way to leave without seeming rude or obvious, when Roger spoke, not even bothering to lift his head away from the essay he was writing. 

“Please, not that I’m _not_ impressed by you, but I don’t much care what you choose to do in your free time. You can do work, or nap. I won’t be going around Hogwarts telling everyone Perfect Diggory actually drools in his sleep.” 

Speechless, Cedric could offer no response. Roger spoke to him so...frankly, in a way not even those in his House did with him. Almost as if they were friends. 

“So what is it then?” Roger prodded, sparing Cedric a glance. “A kip or a study session? Perhaps of my profile, since you seem so keen.” A hint of a smile was on his face. 

Cedric flushed. “Bugger off, Davies.”

“Hit a nerve, have I? Not to worry, I’m excellent at keeping secrets.”

He was about to reply, but something about Roger’s expression had him stopping mid-retort. It was earnest, but not critical. Curious, but without ill-intent. Cedric was taken aback by its sincerity. 

It was only when Roger nodded towards Cedric’s lap did he realize his error--his notebook was open, crude doodles and scribbled words and all. 

He might as well have been naked. 

But Roger just shrugged, moving his hand away from his own piece of parchment. Cedric could only stare. It turns out he didn’t come here for essay writing, either.

Cedric’s cheeks felt warm, his stomach in knots. There was something intimate about this moment, a vulnerability he had never thought he could have shared with anyone. 

Roger didn’t bother suppressing his smile anymore. His eyes never left Cedric’s. “Like I said. Excellent.”

That was the first summer Cedric went home with his hair longer and messier than it’s ever been, waves falling into his eyes. He might as well have been Harry Potter with how often he needed to push it back. His father wasn’t too keen on the comparison. Roger found it hilarious.)

* * *

**4\. He pretends he knows himself, and is secure with this knowledge**

His father always stressed the importance of good connections, for networking and all that. And from a young age, it was clear that Cedric was charming. A natural silver tongue. Should he have wanted, he could have made everyone fall at his feet, make all the wrong choices and still have the world chant his name. 

In another life, perhaps. But not this one. 

Because as much as Cedric cared about his own reputation, he never much cared for status, and always strived to see the good in others. Or tried to, at least.

It was how he and Roger became such fast friends, and good ones at that. 

If you asked anyone about those two, they’d say they were two sides of the same coin: handsome, intelligent, athletic. 

If you asked those two specifically, they’d just smile at each other and laugh. They were a bit lonely, really. Reserved. Their silence was even taken for cockiness sometimes, if not thick-headedness. Rumors and speculations swirled around them: who would make Captain first, or if they would in the first place. If their friendship was just a farce, a weird intimidation tactic between two of Hogwarts’ best. A few wondered whether or not it was just friendship. 

The comments never bothered Roger though--he knew himself, and what their friendship was and what it meant to the both of them. It was no one’s business but theirs.

Cedric was another matter. 

“I just don’t understand why everyone wants to make a show of us,” he sighed. 

They were in their little alcove in the library after a long day of classes, writing. Or in Cedric’s case, complaining about how for a school so absorbed with their own Houses, it seemed ironic how they made it a point to notice everything about what was happening in all the other ones anyway.

Roger looked up from his parchment, eyebrow raised. “Well, we are a bit of an odd pairing.”

“Not that odd, you know.” 

“If that’s what you believe, then why does what anyone says matter?”

“Because they’re saying it!” 

Roger put his quill down. “Just because someone says it, Ced, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

It was times like these when the two clashed the most. After all, even those hailing from the same coin had to face the fact sometimes: they were still from two different sides. 

“Say anything enough times, though,” he mumbled.

Roger just shook his head. “It doesn’t lose its meaning. Neither does it become any more true. Truth is subjective. I choose to see my own, not become others’.” 

How Cedric wished he had the same choices. 

He knew Roger didn’t mean anything by it, in the end. He was simply trying to help, although at times Cedric did wish he was a bit more _clear_ about it. He liked to joke that Roger had been spending too much time outside his common room as of late, to the point that he’d started to talk like the damn door knocker. 

Nonetheless, he liked Roger, and valued their friendship fiercely. It still surprised him sometimes, just how much closer they’d grown since their first meeting in the library, how much common ground they shared beyond Quidditch. He wished they’d befriended each other earlier, another one of Cedric’s grievances about himself. Too focused on everything around him, too concerned about the future, he often forgot to cherish what lay right in front of him. He always felt like he was running out of time. 

So he figured he could take the taunting and the rumors, take a page off Roger’s book and just _be._ For all he jibed about Roger’s cryptic riddles, Cedric appreciated how much they helped him anyway, encouraging him to constantly reorient and reevaluate himself. Where Charms and Flying helped free Cedric, gave him a little time to just escape, Roger grounded him. It was he who made Cedric think maybe, just maybe, living life was better than running away from it all the time. He could almost believe it was even his to live. 

Just almost. 

It was Roger who introduced him to Cho Chang. She was kind, and pretty. He thought her to be a little reserved, though Roger insisted she was anything but, especially on the pitch. 

“Seeker.” Roger said proudly. “Only girl on the team.” 

“For now,” she always countered. 

Cho, he was amused to find, was indeed the most boisterous out of them. He pointed it out to her once, after a Seeking game, and she just laughed. 

“I’ve always been, you know.”

“Well, do you care for other people to?” Cedric prodded.

“Care for them to what?”

“Know. Find out what you’re actually like.” 

He couldn’t help noticing that Cho shook her head the same way Roger did whenever he said something apparently perplexing. A mix of bafflement and amusement. 

“You misunderstand, this _is_ what I’m actually like, people don’t need to find anything out. You’d be surprised how much we can see about a person if we just let go of our preconceptions of them.” 

Now it was Cedric’s turn to be confused. “But that’s a bit...barmy, isn’t it? Life is all about preconceptions.” 

Cho looked at him intently. “I think it is if we let it be.” 

Bhavana Patel readily agreed. So did Hecate Oakham. 

“She’s smart, that one,” Bhavana told him, and Hecate nodded her assent, but she was too busy braiding Bhavana’s hair to offer much more of a comment. Bhavana winced at a particularly hard tug from Hecate, who offered a kiss to her dark curls in response. 

They were the only ones at the Lake today, the three of them wanting space from their housemates celebrating Hufflepuff’s latest quidditch win in the common room. It was also the reason they avoided the Greenhouse--Cedric didn’t fancy having to explain to Professor Sprout why he failed to attend what was technically his own party. 

After seeing Harry Potter fall from the Dementor attack, he hardly deserved a celebration, much less to be celebrated.

_“It wasn’t your fault, Ced. You didn’t see him.”_

_“I should have!”_

_“Playing this game again, are we? Might as well not have stepped foot on the pitch at all, then.”_

“You should listen to her.” Hecate chimed. “Never underestimate Claw advice.”

Cedric snorted. “If I went by that, you do realize that means I’d have to listen to _Roger_ of all people, right?” 

Hecate’s hands paused, and she stared at Cedric in this searching, all-knowing way that reminded him of Cho’s friend, Luna Lovegood. He fidgeted, unable to meet her green eyes any longer. They saw too much. 

“He’ll listen when he’s ready, Cate.” Bhavana said, reaching around to pat Hecate’s hand. “He’s still shook up about Harry.”

_“You don’t understand, Roger. The way he fell, there was no resistance. It’s like he was lifeless.”_

_“Dementors-”_

_“He screamed for his mother, you know that? Before. The pain, I could feel it. The chill in the air, the perpetual gray of having the joy sucked out of you. Of being forced to relive your worst memories. It’s why I turned around.”_

_“You did your best.”_

_“It wasn’t good enough.”_

It _wasn’t_ good enough, and yet, looking at Harry Potter as he lay snoring asleep on the Infirmary bed, Cedric realized he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t make the final move and wake Harry, couldn’t bring himself to apologize for the match. First, because Cedric felt like he didn’t deserve anyone’s forgiveness. Second, because others felt like he didn’t deserve it as much as he didn’t deserve this win--that on any other day, his hard work would never have amounted to anything next to natural talent. Third, because even after all of this, a part of him was still _glad_ he ended up catching the Snitch.

Wracked with guilt, bursting with shame, and pulsing with unchecked ambition, Cedric Diggory turned tail and all but ran out of the Hospital Wing. 

Cedric knew these moments to be when he was at his worst: whenever he was disappointed, angry, or elated when he shouldn’t be. When he let his emotions go and get the best of him. When Cedric allowed himself to _feel,_ the intensity of it was a pleasant hum, the moment intoxicating--the thrill he got out of it was incomparable to being drunk on Firewhisky. Completely sober, at his peak and as if the air would start crackling around him with wild magic, he felt in those brief moments like he could do _anything._

But what was comparable to being drunk on Firewhisky, was the inevitable come down the day after, the regret throbbing and piercing like a bad hangover. Cedric would remember flashes of ruthlessness and relentlessness most would deem uncharacteristic. Hecate even called them ‘unsettling’ once, though he could tell she meant it as more of a casual observation than a critical comment. 

Cedric couldn’t rebuff her. Not uncharacteristic, but a slip of the mask, enough so that they too could see the man he was ashamed of becoming. The man that he was scared to face, and at times like these during the quidditch match and in the Hospital Wing, the man he was sure he already was. 

Cho’s words rang in his mind.

**(4.5)**

(“Diggory, could I have a word?” 

Harry had stopped him on his way to the Library, just a few hours after he had revealed his new Firebolt. 

“Don’t worry, Harry,” he smiled, “I won’t ask for a turn. Yet.”

Cedric had meant for it to be a joke, but Harry ran a hand through his hair, causing Cedric to frown. He was about to ask what was wrong when Harry spoke again.

“You know the match? The one with the Dementors?”

Cedric fought his instinct to flinch at the reminder. Everyone else referred to the match as the one where Hufflepuff got lucky, or where Harry’s Nimbus was destroyed. Draco Malfoy in particular had taken a shine to ‘the one with the Boy Who Fell.’ Few ever referred to it for what it was. He forgot how straightforward Harry Potter was, how brazen. Names held power, and Harry refused to bow down to them, whether they were names of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Dementors, or You-Know-Who himself. 

If Cedric’s own name held any weight, any significance outside of himself, he wondered if he could be just as fearless. 

“Yes, I do. I’m still sorry about that, by the way.”

Harry waved off the apology. “It was a fair match. Even Oliver admits that, and he only says it’s a good game when he means it. I actually wanted to ask you about something else.”

Cedric raised an eyebrow, wondering what else he could offer other than apologies, but nodded for Harry to continue anyway. 

“Did you...I mean, I don’t want to assume. But I just, well. Did you come to visit me the other night? At the Hospital Wing.” 

Cedric kept a neutral expression, quickly considering his options. The most obvious one was to tell Harry the truth. He _should_ tell Harry the truth. After all, what was the harm checking in on a clearly injured...school-mate? Acquaintance? 

But then why go at night? Why did he go at all?

Harry’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed him, even if only for a moment. Cedric thought they seemed almost hopeful, and the implications of this terrified him. Fear bubbled up in his chest, and the all-too-familiar feelings of shame and guilt rose up along with it. He found himself choking on the truth. Upon the admittance of one secret, he would have to give up another, and Cedric was not ready. He wasn’t sure he would ever be. 

“I’m afraid not, Harry. Though I did ask after you, to make sure you were well and...everything.” 

He cringed inwardly. He was usually smoother than this. 

“Oh.” Harry’s voice seemed suddenly smaller, his smile more forced. Cedric noticed his hand grip the handle of his bag a little tighter. “I thought I heard someone, and then saw...nevermind, then. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Harry-”

“See you around.” And with a curt nod, he was gone.)

* * *

  
**5\. He pretends he’s fearless. That he wants to join the Tournament.**

Bhavana always had a fascination with Gods and the tragedies that came with them. Greek, Roman, Inca, Hindu, Biblical-- she could talk to him about them for days. She grew up with muggle parents who loved Ancient History and Theology, and their passion was not lost on her. Had she not felt equal love for Herbology, Cedric was certain she would gladly drop the Wizarding World altogether and continue in her parents’ footsteps.

“Bold for a muggleborn, eh? Being proud to be one, I mean,” she would say, even as others attempted to shush her. She would just shrug at Cedric, a sly grin on her face. (Professor Sprout had long since ceased her own attempts to manage Bhavana. Personally, Cedric thought their Head of House enjoyed seeing the other students squirm).

It was a long-standing joke, ever since they were children, that had Bhavana not demanded to be placed in Hufflepuff, the Hat would have taken the entire ceremony trying to sort her. _“A real hatstall,” she told him. “But don’t tell anyone. I like to keep people guessing.”_

So he learned about Atlas from her one day, as they were walking back to the common room after Herbology. She told him about this titan who holds up the sky, her hands making a cupping motion. He imagined the world in his hands. He could see himself as a child, doing the same exact pose as Bhavana; cradling the world and all its possibilities, determined to nurture, to realize them all. 

But Cedric had grown up. To continue to think like that would be a mistake. 

Bhavana moved her hands so that they were no longer mimicking a gentle cupping, raising them instead above her head. She looked almost reverent, the midday sun making her olive skin look as if it were gleaming, the breeze letting her hair break away from its loose braid to flow freely in the wind. But her expression went from awed to pained, her reverence turning into sacrifice.

Having heard Bhavana tell this story, seeing her reenact it, he couldn’t help but sympathize with Atlas despite the titan’s reputation. Cedric, too, was intimate with the lesson that the sky was not a gift, but a burden. 

He thinks of his own skies, world after world placed in his hands. It took everything to remain upright. Sometimes he dared to hope he could do what Atlas could not. But then he would stumble, would cave in on himself; he would remember then that unlike Atlas, he was only mortal. 

He wondered for a moment whether or not Harry ever felt the exhaustion, if he ever gave in to the resentment too. After all, the sky was a punishment, and what had they ever done, children as they were and still are, to deserve such divine damnation?

“You don’t have anything more to prove, Ced.” Roger said, voice low amidst the crowd so only he could hear the concern in his words.

Cedric mirrored Roger’s plastic smile. In the corner, he could see Cho wringing her hands, the accidentally-bearded Weasley twins still fighting behind her. Bhavana and Hecate stayed away from the crowd, but kept their eyes on him nevertheless.

In the corner of his eye, he even saw Harry, smiling encouragingly (if not a little shyly) at him.

But all Cedric could hear was the chant of his name, could only feel the bodies and hands of those pushing against him until he was just a breath away from the Age Line. 

Everyone thought he could do it. Everyone thought he _should._

He looked to Roger once more, his friend’s expression pleading. “You don’t have to do this.”

Cedric could imagine his father's fervor, his house's pride. _"Imagine! A Champion despite being a Hufflepuff."_

He wanted the world to see that he could be a Champion _because_ he was a Hufflepuff, not _despite._ But he got the distinct impression that no matter if he was chosen, the latter is what would be told.

Still, eternal glory be damned. Although usually correct, Roger was wrong about this. He had everything to prove with this Tournament. 

He shook his head, giving Roger a sad smile. “Yes, I do.”

The only light came from the Goblet now, and Cedric thought of Bhavana’s Hestia, of her red flames and comforting hearth. He always thought death to be like that: warm, as if he were coming home. But these flames were cool, an intimidating royal blue which cast a sickly pallor over the faces of everyone in the Hall. Its warning was so clear it was almost macabre in its execution, and sitting there at the Hufflepuff table, he suddenly hoped the Goblet wouldn’t spew out his name.

But it did, of _course_ it did, and all Cedric could do now was rise from his seat and smile. Hecate laid a reassuring hand on his arm. Bhavana pushed him forward. He made his way towards the end of the Hall, so as to take his place amongst the other sacrificial lambs. 

Passing by, he felt Roger take hold of his robe, stopping him momentarily to whisper a breathless “good luck.” He could not bring himself to meet his eyes, afraid to witness not only Roger’s fear, but his own that would be inevitably reflected. 

He was to be Isaac on Moriah, sentenced to death by a twisted Abraham of a father, who wished for his son to perform a miracle. Cedric knew, however, as soon Harry Potter came stumbling into the Champions’ Hall, wide-eyed and sputtering, that there would be no God to save him. There would be no salvation here.

He told himself this was what he wanted. 

*

The date of the First Task was rapidly approaching, and Cedric thought he might soon be sick. 

“You could _ask_ them, you know,” Roger told him, pointing to Fleur speaking softly with Madam Maxine near Hagrid’s Hut. “They seem to know what the bloody hell is going on. Or even Krum, for all I care; Karkaroff surely must have told him _something.”_

“Come off it, Roger, that’s-”

“Who the fuck cares if it’s cheating? Don’t be daft, Cedric.” 

“I care,” Cedric replied hotly. “This is supposed to be a fair game.” 

“I’d say other Champions already knowing the Task immediately eliminates the notion that this could be anywhere near fair.” 

“Just because they were given the information doesn’t mean I need to fish for it.”

“What happened to all your self-preservation?” 

Cedric glared. “Ask the bloody Hat that.” 

“I just don’t understand--”

“What is there to _understand?_ First and foremost, it’s unfair. It’s wrong for me to break the rules just because others choose to do so--it doesn't give the action any justification. It’s an excuse, and a sad one. If that doesn’t satisfy you, imagine I go ahead and ask one of them. What’s the chance of me, the opponent, in getting an answer? Or an _honest_ one? I’d look weak, they’d see me as a target. Word will spread. Either way, Hogwarts’ reputation would be soiled.”

“Hogwarts’, or yours?”

The words dealt like a blow to Cedric, and he found himself speechless. Roger trudged on, nonplussed by his reaction.

“Sacrifice your stupid pride for once, you idiot. This is more than just about the Tournament.”

“What is it about then?” Cedric asked. Even with his best friend, he couldn’t help his stubborn streak.

Roger sighed as if he were talking to a petulant child. “You, you absolute prat. It’s about _you_ , my best friend, about to be beaten, seriously injured, or _killed_ just because he can’t bring himself to accept some _help_ for once in his miserable life.”

Cedric remained pointedly silent. 

“People _care_ about you, Ced.” Roger whispered, his voice breaking from the emotion in his words. He took Cedric’s hand, forced him to meet his eyes, blue and clear as the skies above them. Cedric was finally made to confront what he had been trying so hard to avoid since the day he was chosen as Hogwarts Champion. “ _I_ care about you.”

“I know,” he replied weakly. “I know.” 

“Do you?” 

“I’m trying to.”

“So you’ll ask?” Roger’s voice was hopeful. 

Cedric sighed. As much as he wanted to give Roger peace of mind, habits were still habits. It would take time. He settled for a compromise. 

“If somehow, I’m _given_ the information, I suppose it isn’t cheating. _But_ I refuse to ask for that information myself. Take it or leave it.” 

Roger looked like he was about to argue, but closed his mouth mid-retort, shoulders slumping in defeat. 

“I’ve no choice, do I?”

“Do any of us ever do?”

Cedric draped an arm around Roger’s shoulders, offering one of their signature side hugs. He tensed under Cedric’s arm, but gradually his posture loosened, and he leaned into Cedric’s side. Cedric knew then that while the peace was kept, it was definitely a temporary one until Roger would find the need to bring it up again, and Cedric would find a way to deflect it.

It was a cycle, and an unfair one on his part, but Cedric would be damned if he wasn’t attempting to break it. 

“I guess not,” Roger answered. “But I really hope someone comes along and gives you one.”

*

Harry was breathless and rosy-cheeked and clearly in a rush as he ran to meet Cedric, who was on his way to Charms. 

“Diggory, a word?” And then, a hastily added, “Please?” 

Cedric thought they needed to stop meeting like this. He looked from Roger to Harry and to the end of the hall that would lead them to the Charms classroom. He felt oddly as if he were caught between too many priorities at once.

“Sorry, Harry, but we’re running a bit late at the moment--”

“I’ll tell Flitwick your bag ripped or something,” Roger interjected, looking between Cedric and Harry.

Cedric narrowed his eyes at his friend, at his barely-there smile and cheery expression. “Roger, that would be--”

“You call it lying, I call it saving you a Detention. Clearly whatever he has to say is important, else he wouldn’t be risking being late to his own class, don’t you think? Isn’t that right, Potter?”

If Cedric didn’t know any better, he would have called Roger’s expression _imploring._

“Oh. Um, yes, actually.” Harry said, looking slightly out of his depth. “Thank you.” 

“No, no, the pleasure is all mine.” Roger grinned. He patted Cedric on the back and went merrily on his way. 

“I wonder what that was about.” Cedric murmured. 

“Dragons.” Harry suddenly said. 

“Excuse me?” 

“That’s the First Task.” 

After debating over what it could be for so long, and then resolving that he would just find out on the day of the damn thing, he didn’t know if being informed that he would be facing a full-grown fucking _dragon_ made him want to cry with relief or laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

“They’ve got four,” Harry continued. “One for each of us.” 

“Are you sure?”

Harry nodded, looking as nervous as Cedric suddenly felt. “I’ve seen them.”

“You’ve _seen_ them?” Cedric had to keep his volume in check. “How? We weren’t supposed to-”

“Know, yeah. That doesn’t matter. What matters isn't whether or not we were _supposed_ to know, but that we _all_ know now. Not just me and Fleur and Krum.”

Cedric didn’t know how to react. While part of him was thankful Harry bothered to tell him at all, that small part of himself wondered how he could be so selfless all the time. Even now, he couldn’t help the bitter taste in his mouth. Yet again, the last to know. The most inferior. Had their roles been reversed, Cedric wasn’t so sure, for all he preached about fairness, if he would have given up the advantage. 

Perhaps that’s why he spoke so strongly about fairness in the first place. He was ashamed of what he knew he could never truly be. 

“Why are you telling me this?”

Harry looked at him curiously. “Because it’s...well, it’s just fair, isn’t it? We’re all on even footing now.” Cedric stared long enough for Harry to blush. “Aren’t we?” 

He had a feeling the question wasn’t entirely about dragons anymore. 

Cedric remembered running out of the Hospital Wing, running away from the boy who looked as if he was about to wake. “ _Did you come visit me the other night?”_

A secret for a secret. 

“I guess we are, Harry.”

**(5.5)**

(Play pretend enough times, and you can become an expert on reading between the lines. 

*

“Good one, Harry.” _I’m proud of you._

“And you,” said Harry, grinning back. _I’m proud of you too._

*

“How have you been feeling?” _You need to take better care of yourself._

“Spectacular.” _This, coming from you?_

“You know the Prefect’s Bathroom? On the fifth floor?” _You haven’t slept. You’ve barely been eating._

“What about it?” _I’m fine._

“Just take your egg and...mull things over in the hot water.” _Let me help. Please._

“Cedric.” _You don’t have to._

“Consider us even. For the Dragons.” _That isn’t the same as ‘you don’t need to.’ I worry about you._

“Oh.” _Why?_

“The password’s ‘pine fresh.’” _Why do you think?_

*

“I heard you’re going to the Ball with Cho Chang.” _Why didn’t you tell me?_

“I am.” _I’m sorry._

“She’s nice.” _...Do you like her?_

“I heard you asked her too.” _That doesn’t matter._

“I did. She said she was sorry.” _It does. You know it does._

“Did she?” _Not now. Please._

“Yes. I just don’t know what for. Or whom.” _It’s never the right time._

*

“You look good.” _I’m still sorry._

“So do you.” _It doesn’t matter._

“Where’s Parvati?” _Don’t say that._

“Probably went wherever Cho did.” _What do you want me to say? What do you want to say?_

“She says hi, by the way.” _I don’t know._

“Yeah. She stopped by to greet me after the dance.” _Maybe it’s time to figure it out, then._

*

Cedric caught Harry's eye as he greeted Cho goodnight. _Where do we stand?_

He noticed Cho following his gaze, her expression pensive before turning wistful as she noticed Hermione Granger nearby. 

Harry continued to stare. _It's only you who we're waiting on an answer from._

Cedric fought the urge to look away. _You don't leave me with many choices._

Harry gave a sad smile, then turned for Gryffindor Tower. _I give plenty. You're just not taking them._

* 

“You look tired.” _It’s my turn to worry about you._

“You’re the one who saved two people when you didn’t even have to!” _I believe it’s a perpetual state, worrying for one another. Besides, relationships aren’t balancing scales._

“Stupid, I know.” _You’d be surprised._

“Maybe. Others would call it brave.” _Then I guess I need to work harder to surprise_ you.

“Would you?” _I do like challenges._

“I’d call it both.” _Is that all you like?_

(Cedric thought it was the bravest thing he had never said.)

*

"Why did you tell me about the Egg?" _Will we only ever speak like this?_

"Good sportsmanship." _We don't only speak like this._

"I don't believe you. Or well, at least that isn't the only reason." _We do. But we've waited long enough. Since that night in the Hospital Wing._

"What are the other reasons then?" _You were awake._

"Just one other, really." _I was._

Harry kissed him. 

*

"If you aren't ready…" _I'll wait._

"It's not that." _I'm scared. And you shouldn't have to._

"I know." _It's my choice._

"There are so many things I want to say." _I wish I had my own too._

"Then say them. Luna always says to start with small truths." _You do. You always have a choice, Cedric._

*

"Kiss me again." _I choose this. I choose us. I choose to be myself._ )

* * *

  
**6\. He pretends he’s ready to die.**

Cedric Diggory realized the moment Harry Potter was deemed a Fourth Champion that this year could only end in tragedy. Someone would have to pay a price, and he knew Harry was too young to face death just yet. 

And with Krum and Fleur now incapacitated, Cedric accepted the fact that just like Isaac, and also like Harry, in this story he too had ended up a Chosen One. Just not one who would be able to live. 

_“My boy,” his father told him at the entrance of the Maze, “you will be great. You will be remembered.”_

_“I hope you’ll remember me well.”_

_“History will remember you proudly.”_

If only he could have told his parents that history will remember him at seventeen, and not up until he was seventy. 

He saw a flash of green, and his eyes widened in surprise at the clumsy vehemence in the words _Avada Kedavra_. Habitually, he wondered if his father would be disappointed in the way he would die: a pathetic split-second duel, if you could even call it that. A Champion with no glory. A spare.

As soon as the curse hit, it seemed to Cedric that time had frozen, as if Death himself was slowing down his last moments. A small act of mercy for a cruel end. Reality was suspended, and glimpses of his life came crashing down on him for the final time.

_A dreary childhood, an empty train compartment. Scribbled words on paper, calloused hands and a throbbing shoulder. Silent tears, the wind in his hair and a snitch in his hand. Dark circles and late nights. The need to be better, ever-present ambition. Disappointment, loneliness, rejection. The sky on his shoulders. Hands holding him up, gentle and steady. A found family. Magic in their words and promises and encouragement. Spellwork in the way they weaved together to create something truly whole, a dynamic that was extraordinary and only theirs._

Cedric knew he would die with regrets. He had never properly stood up to his father, had never gotten the opportunity to truly discover himself and his wants and needs. He would never be able to thank Roger, Cho, Bhavana, Hecate. For their friendship and support and love. 

And then there was Harry. It wasn’t love with him--but it could have been. He wished he could have let him know, but he hoped their time together, short as it was, would be enough. If there was one thing in his life he hoped would be enough, it was that.

Cedric would never be able to realize his own dreams, live his own life as he wanted it, unabashedly. But in his final weeks, in these final moments, he could tell himself he was proud of the person he was becoming. Of the person he could have really become, had he been given a little more time. 

He hoped history would think the same.

**Author's Note:**

> i miss him :( scream w me at tumblr !! [@arimendoza](https://arimendoza.tumblr.com/)


End file.
